Kiss It All Better
Summary: The world he knew was gone. The man he loved was dead. Nothing was okay anymore.
John Watson was a man of his word. When he promised something to you, his promise would be kept; no matter what. It was funny, he thought, that his loyalty had taken him this far. That alone was almost enough to make him laugh.
Not even a month ago, John was a free man. He was able to walk the streets of London, see the grey sky above him, and smell the fresh air around him. But that man. That one goddamn man took everything away, and the worst part was that John was the one who had the honor to pay the price. And the man he loved so much was gone, never to return; never to take another breath.
In all honesty, prison cells sucked. Yes, he was an ex-army doctor. Yes, throughout his time of service John was able to experience many terrible things. He got see things that no person should ever have to witness. Just the thought of it… John shook his head. No person should be required to see such atrocities. He had faced worse, but prison cells were down right wretched.
He sat down onto the stiff cot that served as his bed. The damned thing fucked with his leg every night. He figured that the stupid limb would be borderline useless by the end of the month. He hated this. He was locked up in a place where he'd rather not be and watched like a bug under a microscope. The lack of privacy irked John, as he was a very private person. That, and using the loo with a less-than-credible audience was not his forte. Sighing, he flopped down onto his back and rubbed the heels of his hands against his tired eyes.
As careful as he was about what he was think of, it was always at this time of night that he began to think of him; his lover, Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it was because the tragedy occurred right around this time. Or, maybe it was just nerves. John wasn't too sure. Either way, he and Sherlock had just finished a case and were heading off to a nearby pub not too far from the crime scene. He had his arm around Sherlock. They were laughing. He was smiling. Sherlock was smiling. It was drizzling and the water coated pavement glistened with the reflection of the streetlights above. The air was chilly but not too cold; just enough to draw Sherlock closer to him from the lack of body heat. Sherlock had his usual cold-weather attire on; the not-too-loose purple button up shirt and black slacks accompanied by the navy scarf and black trench coat that seemed to be glued to him. Everything about that night was perfect. Sherlock was with him. The weather was just right. Their case had been closed with little to no complications. Hell, his leg wasn't even hurting that badly. 'Shit,' John grimaced. He didn't want this. He didn't want to remember. He knew how this ended, and fuck it hurt too much to remember.
Few would have been out and around at the time. No sane person would be walking the dark streets of London at two in the morning. Then again, there really wasn't anything that was considered 'sane' about his and Sherlock's relationship, anyway. Even if the streets were empty where they were, trouble must have been stirring elsewhere. A man, maybe a little over twenty-five, came stumbling around the next corner. He was obviously drunk, seeing that he was incapable of holding himself upright. He was also, apparently, pissed off as well. Though the words were heavily slurred, John could make out most of the garbled yowling the man was making. The, now dubbed, 'Angry Drunk' man was slightly limping as he stormed towards the general direction of where he and Sherlock were standing. (Sherlock deduced that the limping was most likely caused from a very recent bar fight after he shared a small awkward silence with his lover.) Suddenly, Angry Drunk stopped his alcohol-induced rant and turned towards him and Sherlock. Despite the plentiful illumination that was provided by the streetlights produced from above, Angry Drunk's face was concealed by the sharp contrast of shadow against light.
First silence, then a stand off; afterwards, all Hell broke loose.
"And you see that there," Angry Drunk started up again, "You're a fuckin' faggot just like these two freaks! I hope you burn in Hell, you tainted son of a bitch!" An unintelligible string of shouting sounded from an equally drunk man a good block away from Angry Drunk. John's eyes narrowed in anger, but he stayed silent. Staying out of a fight like this was the most sensible thing to do, and brawling an anger-motivated drunk wasn't worth doing to begin with.
John could feel Sherlock tense as Angry Drunk stormed towards them. Even if Sherlock tended to stay away from getting into physical fights, he wasn't past slugging someone across the face in order to defend John. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock was, actually, extremely protective of him.
The man was walking at a brisk pace and was seemingly unaware of the couple in front of him. Moving closer and closer to him and Sherlock, the air became tense. The sound of clothed shoulder bumping clothed shoulder was made and a small grunt escaped Angry Drunk's lips. "Watch it, Fag," snarled the drunk. He swiveled his head to face Sherlock, his physical features finally revealed by decent lighting. "I was standing still, sir. There is no need to start pointing fingers at people who have done no wrong," Sherlock's voice monotone and cold as ice. Angry Drunk's face went from angry to livid faster than John had ever seen. 'Is that even physically possible,' John mused. The drunkard's face was covered by a prominent five-o'clock shadow and his hair was near black and slightly tussled. Clad in a cheap suit, dress shirt, and tie, one could easily assume him to be a middle-class workingman. Several frown lines were etched into his face to show off his ability to pull off a superb scowl. That scowl was being used to its finest as Angry Drunk starred Sherlock down. A fleeting thought that this unnamed man seemed to stare excessively crossed John's mind but was pushed aside as the sound of swift movement erupted beside him. The drunk had apparently attempted to punch Sherlock, but was thwarted as Sherlock proceeded to constrain him in a tight headlock. An obnoxiously loud string of curses came from the man as he flailed with the futile intention of breaking free. He then managed to twist his body just enough to allow himself room to kick and break free.
Sherlock evaded the kick with haste (John then realized that the kick was aimed for his lover's crotch) and released Angry Drunk from his death grip. The man stumbled forward a few steps and stilled. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath from the way he was slouched over. "You piece of vermin," the drunkard seethed. He reached into his coat and grabbed a small pistol from the depths of its pockets. Instinct took over as John reached for his own gun holster only to find air and his trousers.
Shit, fuck, dammit, and 'Oh God, Sherlock' raced through John's mind at light speed. He was unarmed and, now, pitted against an insane, alcohol induced man with a gun. Panic flooded John's chest as he could only helplessly watch as that man pulled the trigger on Sherlock—not even hesitating to rethink his choices.
A loud bang echoed through the empty street. A strangled cry of shocked pain tore from Sherlock's throat. The clatter of metal against pavement sounded as the gun hit the ground. Heavy footsteps faded away as the man ran from the scene as he realized what he had just done. A scream. Coughing. Choking. Blood. Oh God, so much blood…
Everything turned to slow motion as John raced to his lover's side. He cradled Sherlock in his arms only to face a bloodied mess. Sherlock's eyes were already losing the glow of life that one's eyes contained.
"No… No..! Nonononono! Oh God! Sherlock! Please! Fuck, Sherlock! Please! Don't you fucking dare die on me, you wanker! Dammit, Sherlock! I need you! Please," John pleaded. 'I've lost too many already' went unsaid.
He couldn't lose Sherlock. He wouldn't lose him. There was no way. Just no way that Sherlock was dying. This wasn't happening.
A wet cough pushed through Sherlock as he tried to speak. John hushed him, telling him not to worry. That everything was going to be okay.
"John," Sherlock winced, "I… I don't want to go. Not now… Not… Not ready to go yet… Please… Don't wanna leave… Don't wanna leave yet… Please, John."
Tears were streaming down Sherlock's face as terror crossed his face. He didn't want to die. Not yet. He had something to live for, now. He found what love was. He had John. Dying couldn't be an option… Not anymore. Not when he had something as important as John.
A plethora of curses and rushed apologies poured from John as Sherlock lied in his arms bleeding out to his death. It was his fault that the love of his life was dying. If only he had just moved along and ignored the scene that happened. If only he just moved along and pretended not to notice what had happened in front of them. If only he had kept his gun on him rather than giving it to Lestrade to drop off at his and Sherlock's flat. If only—"It's okay… John," Sherlock rasped. He moved his hand to cup John's cheek, staining it with blood. Breathing was now tiring rather than an unconscious, everyday task, and Sherlock could feel himself fading fast.
Disbelief crashed through John like a train. It was okay..? Okay?! Nothing was okay. He had been an idiot and now he was paying for it. The thought that he could have prevented all of this tormented him, but the torture was short lived as Sherlock spoke again, "Shh… It's okay, Love. You didn't know. You didn't know this would happen." A second later, Sherlock stilled. His arm fell to his side, limp and unmoving. The little light that had remained within Sherlock's eyes was gone. John was alone.
Raw screams of agony ripped from John's throat. His light that kept him going was gone. His world was shattered like glass; irreparable, irreplaceable. Everything that was made right was wrong once more. His hear was destroyed. His soul was broken.
John held Sherlock in his arms despite the fact that his love was gone, never to return. He looked around in hope to find something, anything, to tell him that this was just a dream; just an incredibly shitty dream. His eyes landed on the gun and rage consumed him. The fact that that man had the nerve to point a gun at Sherlock let alone pull the trigger… John shook his head. That man would pay for what he did. Placing his hand over Sherlock's eyes, John closed them and kissed him one last time against his cold cheek. He rose to his feet and picked the gun up. 'Tonight,' John thought, 'Tonight you will be avenged.'
"I promise, Sherlock."
He held onto a memory. That's all it really was. It was an image of his love dying in his arms, covered in his own blood. The man, whose name was Daniel Albertson as John had learned, was dead; six feet under and, hopefully, burning in the deepest level of Hell. His love was still gone. His life was destroyed. His named was now tainted with the record of murdering another man. He was trapped within the confinements of prison for twenty-five years. A bullet through the heart of Daniel Albertson wasn't enough to bring Sherlock back, and John understood this now.
The cold bite of his cell rushed through his body as he rolled over to his side. A single tear streaked his cheek as he cried silently.
"Stay with me, Sherlock. Stay with me until I fall asleep. Stay with me… Please."